


Thank You

by blink_fahrenheit



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 04:36:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blink_fahrenheit/pseuds/blink_fahrenheit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Battle of Five Armies. Thorin searches for the words to comfort a dying Fíli. Character death, some gore, lots and lots of angst. Ye be warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thank You

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is my first time writing for this archive, and I figure I might as well start off by horribly murdering my favorite character. I hereby declare that I own nothing, which is probably for the best.  
> Let me know if I make any mistakes, because I love nothing more than the opportunity to improve my work. Thank you all for reading, and I sincerely hope you get some enjoyment out of this!

            Kíli hadn’t seen yet. He was still fighting, still screaming, still surging forwards with fire and life.

            He had not yet seen that his brother was fading away.

            The spear was so _heavy_. It was no great wonder that Fíli could not rise from his knees with such a thing imbedded in his core. His face registered some pain, but it was pushed away by a blank, simple expression of surprise that Thorin would have laughed at, on another day. It was a face of “ _I-could-have-sworn-there-was-another-step-on-this-staircase”_. A face of “ _who-braided-my-hair-like-this-while-I-was-sleeping?”_. A face of “ _Great-Durin’s-Beard,-how-long-has-there-bean-a-spear-there?”._

            _“Fíli!”_ Thorin roared, cutting aside any foolish wretch that dared stand between him and his heir, his friend, the one chosen to lead his people. _“Fíli!”_

             The golden head turned at the sound of its name, such a grotesquely ordinary response. Thorin might have been calling him to take over the watch, or come in for dinner.

            Blank eyes met Thorin’s for a fleeting moment, but no familiarity registered there. Instead Fíli’s brow furrowed, and he turned his empty eyes upon the thing protruding from his belly and he blinked. Unnaturally steady hands found the shaft of the spear and tugged as if it was just a bur that had snagged on his coat, as though it would dislodge if asked politely. Thorin screamed with him when the bur remained tangled with ribs and nerves and self.

            When Thorin’s knees finally hit the ground beside the precious bundle of blood and fear and pain, the wonderful creature that had once been Fíli, there was little left to save. The young face was too rigid to convey any expression, eyes shut and brow crumpled and jaw twitching and red dribbling out from where there had once been words and song. Hands convulsed around the shaft of the spear, grasping in search of life, or perhaps in search of death. A cruel barb poked out of the lad’s back, effectively foiling any attempt to end this invasion of his innards.

            Thorin grasped him by the shoulder with one hand and cupped his face with the other, searching for his nephew’s bright eyes. They flickered open, and recognition flashed dully across the murky green. Fíli opened his mouth, perhaps to ask for help, perhaps to say goodbye, but blood gurgled up instead of meaning.

            “No,” Thorin croaked, and it was a plea and a prayer and an order, because Fíli _always_ followed orders. Don’t tug at your brother’s hair. Don’t let your sword drop. Don’t let the ponies out of your sight. Don’t die. Don’t go. Please. _Please_.

            But then, Fíli didn’t always follow orders. He hadn’t even faltered when Thorin was screaming for him to _stop, don’t, get away._ When one of the monsters that filled Thorin’s dreams with blood and death was stalking towards him, when Thorin’s leg had still been clenched in the jaws of a dead warg and he _couldn’t_ _move_ , when Fíli had taken one look and then hurled himself forwards to serve his king. Fíli hadn’t flinched when Thorin howled at him to run, that he didn’t need to do this, that he had no place standing between his uncle and death.

            Fíli hadn’t blinked when there was suddenly and orcish spear tearing into him and Thorin was screaming from the effort of tearing his leg free and the pain of being too late.

            Now Thorin held him close, a familiar chasm of loss yawning open in his heart. “Fíli,” he choked. “I'm sorry, Fíli, oh my Fíli, I’m so sorry.” But the words had meant nothing to Thrór and nothing to Frerin, and he could see in the slump of Fíli’s shoulder and the loll of his head that they meant nothing now. He searched frantically for better words, fuller words, words for this brave warrior to die by.  When he found them they almost brought forth the tears that were so suspiciously absent. He pressed his forehead into Fíli’s temple, and whispered them into his ear with as much fervency as if he were speaking to Mahal himself.

_“Thank you. Thank you, my dear son.”_

            Fíli’s breath hitched and stuttered, and Thorin pulled back in a panic to look into the bloodied face. Green eyes met his own, bright and sad and so focused that Thorin believed he had been heard, believed that this marvelous being had heard every word that that Thorin had ever spoken to him. And then Fíli's eyes slid up towards the sky, and he drew no more breath.

            Now Kíli turned. Now he saw. Now he screamed in terror at the impossibly vast grief that surged up to swallow him whole. Thorin could not scream with him. He could not shed a tear. 

What he could do was place a reverent kiss on Fíli’s brow and lay him down in the sunlight. He could struggle to his feet and lift his sword. And he could fight with his heart dead on the ground until every orc on this field had paid with a sea of blood for daring to live while his heir did not.

            His kills were his offerings. His slain foes were his praises. Every breath he drew was a giving of thanks to the beautiful thing that had fallen to give Thorin more time. Before this day was done, he would thank Fíli. For every act of loyalty, for every gesture of love, for every moment of life that he had lived where Thorin could watch it unfold and for all the precious moments lost. He would thank the young dwarf he had raised like a warrior and loved like a son.

            And then, when this battle took his life, as he knew it would, he would thank the merciful blow that ended his gratitude. 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry 'bout that whole, you know, murdering everyone thing. It was Tolkien's idea, I swear!  
> By the way, how did my first fic here go? Would you hate me forever if I wanted to try another one?


End file.
